


And then there's you.

by ilikedthewayhegaveback



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1872522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilikedthewayhegaveback/pseuds/ilikedthewayhegaveback
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is set in a non-PDS AU. Simon didn't die, Kieren didn't die, and this is the result. Huzzah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I could feel that the alcohol had gone to my head - the rows of street lamps were slightly off focus, the orange sky blurring into one thick fuzz. Fuck it. Maybe getting drunk would wake my parents up. Make them realise I wasn't happy. I stumbled along, feeling my chest begin to tighten against the cold night air. For a moment I stopped, turning my face to the coming night and closing my eyes, feeling nothing but the sharp breeze and the gentle pressure of the glass bottle dangling from my fingertips. The scent of wet grass and chip shops drifted up, creating an odour half cloying, half sweet. Then there was another smell. That metallic, stony smell of rain. I opened my eyes, feeling the first few droplets of begin to fall. I heaved a sigh and carried on, speeding up from a walk to a gentle jog. I felt sick. I'd drunk far too much in so short a space of time, and I hadn't planned on running. The entrance to the subway seemed like my only place to shelter any time soon. I ducked under the concrete ceiling and leant against the wall, a cold sweat breaking out over my skin. From the other end of the tunnel the scent of piss and oily fish crept up. I turned, my stomach lurching, and threw up against the wall.  
"You'll want to be watching yourself."  
I coughed, looking over my shoulder and wiping my mouth on my sleeve hastily. A man sat hunched further ahead, leaning against the wall of the tunnel with a bag pressed to his side. I was surprised - the voice was soft, almost poetic, a sweet Irish accent. It didn't fit the man I saw before me.  
"What's it to you?"  
Had I been entirely sober, I probably wouldn't have spoken back to him.  
"Before you know if you'll end up like me. Lost. Alone."  
I frowned, taking another swig from the bottle, despite the fact that my throat was burning.  
"So what? What do you care?"  
"I care because it happened to me. I wouldn't wish my fate on anyone."  
I stared at him and he stared back. Even from a distance of several metres, I could see the soft hazel colour of his eyes. Deep amber with faint flecks of green. His hair looked unwashed, and I couldn't help wondering how long he'd been here.  
"What happened?" I asked, taking a few tentative steps towards him, grasping the neck of the bottle more tightly.  
"My dad threw me out. I don't have anywhere else to go."  
"Oh..."  
I didn't know what to say. I took another gulp from the bottle and the man cocked an eyebrow.  
"Careful."  
"Yeah, alright, I get it."  
I shook my head, trying to ease out the dull ache that had begun in my forehead.  
"What's your name?"  
I looked up, surprised by the question.  
"Kieren."  
"Kieren," he repeated, seeming to roll the word around between his lips and tongue, tasting it, "I'm Simon. It's nice to meet you."  
"Yeah. You too..."  
I blinked a few times, trying to clear my head.  
"You'll be wanting to sit down. Walking about half drunk never did anybody any good."  
I looked at him and he gazed steadily back. I'd had so many lectures about the dangers of being mugged or assaulted at night, but the alcohol rendered them completely useless. I took the final few steps and sat down beside him, keeping my fingers firmly round the bottle.  
"So what happened?" I asked, uncommonly curious, "with your dad?"  
Simon sighed, tipping his head back. He stared up at the dampened concrete above our heads, his eyes narrowed.  
"He didn't want me in the house. Simple as."  
"Well, why not? He can't just kick you out."  
He turned his head to look at me, his eyes half lidded and his eyebrows slightly raised.  
"I take it you get on with your folks then?"  
"Not really. They don't really get me."  
"Let me tell you, Kieren. There's a big difference between your parents not understanding you, and your parents hating you."  
He gave me a meaningful look. I was incredulous.  
"What, really? He hates you?"  
"He woke me up at midnight. He'd packed my bags already. Told me I had half an hour to get out before he called the police."  
"Called the police? What for?"  
"Substance abuse."  
He untucked one arm from his coat, pulling his sleeve back and showing me the skin beneath. His inner forearm was riddled with purpling bruises, each with a tiny pinprick in the centre. It was plain curiosity that made me reach out a hand and brush the marks, letting my fingers drift from smooth, pale skin to the softer, spongier violet of the damaged flesh.  
"And I see you're not without secrets."  
In an instant he'd pulled his arm away, grabbing my wrist and pushing my sleeve up. I should have been scared, but I wasn't. I let him observe the thick line of stitching embedded in my wrist, letting him run his fingers over the even bumps.  
"What happened?"  
"A friend died. I couldn't take it. I tried to kill myself but my sister was worried and she'd already called the police."  
It was a story known by everyone, but never from my own mouth. No, I couldn't tell anyone when I was sober. Drunk, however, and I was spouting it all out to a heroin addict.  
"Are you glad?"  
"What?"  
"Are you glad your sister called the police? Are you glad you survived?"  
I looked up to find his face very close to mine. He smelt a little of sweat, but the overpowering odour was of cigarette smoke, a disgusting smell that I had somehow grown to love.  
"I don't know. My parents don't really know how to deal with me now. My dad's just distant and my mum... She tries. But she doesn't understand. And my sister-- she doesn't like me much. Thinks I'm selfish."  
I glanced up, but he was listening. His brow was slightly furrowed and his eyes questioning, and for some reason it made my heart race and my chest feel like it was on fire.  
"We moved here so Dad could get a new job, but I hate it here. I don't fit in. I loved living in Roarton, but I didn't even fit in there. God..."  
I tipped my head back, closing my eyes. I didn't open them when I felt a gentle pressure on my hand. Even the distinct feeling of cool fingers lacing through my own was not enough to rouse me.  
"You fit in here. With me."  
I flicked my eyes sideways, glancing at Simon. His gaze was intense, but I did not feel threatened. I simply accepted it as he leant towards me, resting his forehead against mine and then, finally, bringing himself closer and pressing his lips to mine. God, I should have fucked off then. But I didn't. I let him kiss me and I kissed him back, letting his tongue slide between my lips and further. He tasted of tobacco and whiskey, and it was revolting and I didn't care. Only when he began to pull away did I feel any sense of revulsion. I scrambled up shakily, pushing myself away from him and trying not to fall over.  
"Get away from me."  
He looked up, his expression unreadable.  
"I said get away!"  
"I don't have anywhere to go, Kieren."  
I felt myself beginning to panic. My head was hurting and I couldn't balance properly.  
"Just fuck off..."  
And I was crying now. A loud, crashing sound in my ears granted me the motivation I needed to make my legs work and start running. I sprinted home, cursing myself and cursing my family and cursing Simon. Fuck him. Fuck everyone. And most of all? Fuck yourself, Kieren.


	2. Chapter 2

My legs shook as I climbed the stairs to our fifth floor apartment. The concrete steps stunk of rot and vomit, and I could feel my stomach curdling. It wasn't just the smell. I was disgusted with myself. I subconsciously brought my sleeve to my mouth, furious scraping, trying to rid myself of the filth I felt covered in. When I finally reached our door I was trembling all over. I fumbled with my keys but someone got there first.  
"Kieren!"  
I looked up into the face of my father. He was a little blurred, but I could see he was angry. Angry in a quiet, gentle sort of way.  
"Decided to pop by, have you?"  
"Give it a break, dad..."  
"No! No I won't! Your mother's been worried sick about you, she's only just got to sleep! Where've you been?"  
I pushed past him and threw myself onto the sofa, feverish and confused.  
"Kier?"  
"I've been out, dad. I went for a-- a walk."  
"At half ten in the evening? Don't think I'm buying that."  
I sighed, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees, burying my face in my hands. What was I supposed to say?  
"You've been drinking, haven't you."  
It was a statement, not a question. I looked up. He stood over me, his hands on his hips, not even shouting at me. That was the worst thing. He didn't care enough to get angry. He just didn't care.  
"Yes, dad. I've been drinking."  
He nodded, somehow both approvingly and disapprovingly at the same time.  
"Well. You've admitted it. Thank you. Now, off to bed."  
I didn't move. I felt like my whole body was tensed up, like I needed to uncoil, to just do something to relieve the feeling of utter depression within me.  
"Well... Don't go out again. Go to bed when you're ready."  
And he was gone. I heard the door to my parent's room click, and that was that.

I sat back against the sofa, tears dripping steadily down my cheeks. I didn't bother to dry them. No one was around to see. My thoughts were already back to Simon. Why, I had no idea. Just a creepy fucking junkie. Who-- who made me feel at home. I gritted my teeth, balling my hands into fists and digging my nails into the palms of my hands. Stupid fucking thoughts. I didn't need this. I stood shakily, starting to walk to my bedroom door when something struck me hard between the shoulder blades. I hissed in pain and whipped round, nearly falling as a dizzying wave of disorientation swept over me.  
"Where the fuck were you this time?"  
Jem stood in her doorway, her face flushed with sleep and her hair wild. The whites of her eyes were red.  
"I went out--"  
"Out? This time of night? Fucking weirdo."  
She slammed the door, storming back into her room. I stood for a minute, then glanced down at the thing she'd thrown at me. It was a book. A scrapbook. A scrapbook of photographs we'd made as kids. I gingerly picked it up, my vision swimming, and took it with me into my room.

I switched the light off and lay on top of my duvet in the darkness. The scrapbook lay on the table beside me, next to my medication and a photograph of Rick. Even in the dark, I could see it clearly. I'd branded the image into my brain, and made a point to bring the memory back to mind at least once a day. I couldn't allow myself to forget. If I forgot, everything became meaningless. I rolled onto my side to face the window. The curtains fluttered in the breeze where I'd left it open. With a sigh I got up, stumbling across the room to close it. For a moment, however, I looked out. The block of flats directly opposite obscured half of the view, but I could still see the little street full of chip shops and off-licences, and slightly in front of that, the subway that housed Simon. I shuddered, trying to make myself feel uncomfortable. But I couldn't. There had been no force when he'd kissed me. No grasping hands, no muttered growls, no threats whatsoever. Yet I was aware that this was entirely wrong. It was entirely wrong, but by God did it feel fine. I bit my lip, rubbing my forehead as I retreated from the window. I lay back down in bed and, by some miracle, I slept.


	3. Chapter 3

I woke to the sound of birdsong, which was a rare occurrence. I never woke up before midday, usually. I lay in bed, warm beneath the duvet although I knew the room was cold. The light filtering through the curtains was weak, and had a faint rosy tinge. I looked over my shoulder. 5:47. I blinked, rubbing my eyes, although I felt fully awake. My mind was strangely clear. I had woken with the tail of a dream still behind my eyes, and I let myself relax, trying to chase it. I was with Rick... Or was it Simon? The face flicked between the two, and I felt guilty. I also felt motivated.

I sat up, drowsy but awake, and wandered to my wardrobe. I layered up, pulling on a jumper and a hoodie with jeans, then crept from my room into the hallway. It was almost completely silent, and it was strange. Most mornings I was prematurely woken by Jem clattering around in her room getting ready for school, mum humming to herself as she cooked breakfast, and dad swearing whilst looking for his keys. Having the flat to myself was rather nice. I pulled my boots on, taking my time and listening to nothing. Once I was done, I unlocked the door and was out.

I knew exactly where I was going. Fucked if I knew why, but I knew. The subway. The disgusting, piss stained, crumbling subway. A small part of my brain reminded me that no, I was not going to the subway. I was going to Simon. My stomach clenched and for a moment I thought I was going to be sick again. But I wasn't. It was a feeling I remembered, and it brought with it a jolting memory I'd have rather forgotten. 

I slowed my eager trot to a walk as I approached the subway. The palms of my hands were sweating and my breathing had picked up. I peered round the edge of the tunnel, and my mood crumpled. He wasn't there. For a moment or two I stood, crippling disappointment beginning to set in. I sighed. What was I thinking... Stupid fucking decision anyway...  
"Oh. You came back."  
I whipped round, trying to keep the expression of delight from my face. Clearly I couldn't as Simon, his bag slung over his shoulder as he walked towards me, smiled.  
"I knew you would. Outcasts attract outcasts."  
I stared up at him and he stared straight back.  
"What are you still doing here?"  
"Waiting for you. Of course."  
One corner of his mouth lifted slightly.  
"Why?"  
"Because I knew you'd come back."  
I looked away, shoving my hands into my pockets.  
"How about we take a walk, Kieren?"  
I nodded, frowning slightly.  
"Yeah. Sure."

I walked close beside him, my hands firmly thrust into the pockets of my coat.  
"How did your folks take it?"  
"Take what?"  
"You. Coming back completely wasted."  
"I wasn't wasted. And they were fine."  
"You're a lucky one. You don't realise it."  
I turned my face up to look at him.  
"How can you just say that? You don't know my family. All you know is yours."  
He didn't reply for a moment. When he did, his voice was soft.  
"You're right. I'm sorry."  
I was slightly taken aback. I hadn't expected him to be so compliant.  
"Well... Thanks."  
We walked in silence for a while. It was strange. The paths we took through the grassy spaces between the blocks of flats were deserted. It was almost eerie. But I wasn't scared. Should have been. But I wasn't.  
"Where are you from?"  
I was surprised the words had even come out of my mouth. I hadn't expected it.  
"I'm from Dublin. Only moved here a few years ago."  
"Why'd you move?"  
"Much the same reason you did. Bad memories."  
I'd forgotten I'd told him about that. I looked up at him and he looked back, a slight smile playing on his lips.  
"Will you stop that?"  
"Stop what?"  
"Stop... Smirking."  
He laughed, and it was a beautiful sound. One that sounded underused.  
"Alright. For you."  
I looked away, determined not to show him that I was smiling.  
"Kieren."  
I felt a gentle pressure on my arm, and I looked round, stopping.  
"What."  
Simon said nothing, merely looking at me. That feeling of tension, I noticed, had reappeared in my chest. The feeling that I needed something to release it. Fuck. I took a step forward and placed my hand on his shoulder, leaning up a little so I could kiss him. Fuck... I hated myself. I hated myself for wanting this, and I hated myself even more for letting it happen. I felt his hand on my arm, and though my eyes were closed I was aware of everything at that moment. I could feel the skin of his fingertips gracing my neck. I could smell the cold scent of the breeze, a mixture of earth and stone. And I could taste Simon's chapped lips, feel the rough texture of cold skin against the smooth of mine. The knot of unease in my chest had dissipated entirely. I pulled away, not opening my eyes until I had taken a few steps away, pulling fresh, frozen air into my lungs. I felt his hand on my back, but I didn't turn round. I stared ahead, at the sky that was slowly brightening from a light hue of rose to a far more familiar grey. I sighed, leaning back onto Simon's hand and letting him take my full weight.  
"You found anywhere to stay yet?"  
"No. Not yet. I'll keep looking around. But don't worry," he said, just as I opened my mouth, "I won't go far."  
I nodded, turning round to face him. He gazed at me unblinkingly, his hair lifted slightly by the faint breeze.  
"I should probably be getting back. I'm not usually awake at this time."  
Honestly, I needed time alone to think, but if Simon could detect that, he didn't let on.  
"Alright. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow. You know where I am, at any rate."  
I nodded, almost certain that I'd come running back to him sooner than that.  
"Yeah. I'll-- I'll see you later, then."  
He nodded, half smiling.  
"See you later, Kieren."  
He raised his hand in a wave as I began walking away, and I returned it before resolutely turning back. It took a lot of willpower not to look over my shoulder, but I managed it. Why it was such a difficult feat, I had no idea.


	4. Chapter 4

I bounded up the stairs of the flat, and there was a spring in my step I thought I had lost a long time ago. A small voice kept urging me on - 'you've found someone, Kier. You've found someone.' I was smiling like an idiot, my whole being glowing with an energy I hadn't felt for a long time. I was shutting out the thoughts that were insisting I was going too fast, because I couldn't cope with the thought that this may only last for a few days. I was happy. And I wanted to hold onto that for as long as I could.

I looked up and felt the energy drain from me, starting with the smile. I went cold to my fingertips, my stomach tightening uncomfortably as I took in the man I saw ahead of me: the utter creep who lived on the floor above us, a seedy, bearded electrician called Gary. He had a horrible tendency to hang about the front of our flat, fag in hand, waiting for Jem to come out. He always made me feel uneasy, although I could never quite say why. He glanced up and I fixed my expression, aware I'd been glaring.  
"Ey up."  
His mouth twisted into a smug little grin. I gave him an upward nod by way of reply, giving him a wide berth as I fumbled my key into the lock.  
"You're not usually out this sort of time."  
I glared at the peeling wood in front of me, before turning towards him slightly, trying to keep my fists from clenching.  
"And you'd know about that, would you? Hanging round so you can talk to Jem..."  
My own voice sounded feeble and puny. I inwardly cursed at myself, my jaw clenching involuntarily.  
"You got a problem with that?"  
I finally turned to look round at him, letting my hand drop from the cool door handle to my side, my fingernails digging into the palm of my hand as I resisted the urge to lash out.  
"Just fuck off, Gary."  
I couldn't think of anything more intelligent to say so I hurriedly pushed the door open, letting myself in.

I was worried he'd cause a fuss, but after the door clicked shut, and the lock had rattled its final, oily song, all was silent. I let out a sigh of relief, allowing the anger to drain from my mind. I tossed the keys on the side table and went to my room, a wave of welcome, warm tiredness flooding me. This, in itself, jolted me awake as I settled myself in my chair, curling up and kicking my shoes off. After any prolonged contact with Gary I was usually left feeling equally nervous and pissed off. Somehow, today, it was different. And however pathetic and rash it was, I knew why. I thought back to Simon. I frowned slightly, nestling my head into the crook of my elbow as I leant on the desk. On the one hand I felt like I was a child, gushing to respond to the slightest bit of affection. That worried me. But then, I was actually happy. And this was not not the quick, feverish bursts of happiness I sometimes encountered, the sort that left me shivery and nauseous, but something deeper and warmer. Like a little pit of embers in my chest had been stoked, and the tiniest flame was finally beginning to ignite.

"Kier? Kier, love."  
I was woken by the feeling of gentle hands shaking my shoulders, and my mother's voice in my ear. I mumbled something, my vision blurred and my head filled with a dull, cotton wool ache.  
"You alright, love?"  
I turned, blinking the fuzz from my eyes.  
"Hmm? Yeah, mum. I'm fine."  
I looked up properly. In the light of the dull midday sun, my mother's face was illuminated. The crease between her eyebrows seemed magnified, and the first flecks of grey in her hair looked almost platinum. I was struck by how exhausted she looked. She opened her mouth to say something, but settled on a sympathetic grimace instead.  
"Are you hungry?"  
I was all set to answer that, no thanks mum, I'm fine, but I wasn't. I nodded.  
"Yeah. Actually."  
She looked surprised. It started from her eyes with a fresh gleam of light. Then her mouth softened from a forced smile to something far more genuine.  
"Alright, love. I'll go put something together for you."  
She stood, running a hand through my hair and swooping down to kiss my forehead before leaving. As the door closed I descended back into reality, floating down slowly from the odd situation that was my mother smiling. It had to have been months since that had happened. I pulled my jacket off, tossing it to the floor and going over to the window, my head pounding. I could hear, very faintly, my mum humming. It was a happy, sprightly tune, not the durge I had come to recognise. And, with another little leap of fire, I realised it was because of me. Because I'd expressed interest in eating. I leant my elbows on the windowsill, feeling the cool wood press through the material of my shirt. I looked out across at the flats, the shops, the subway and the sky. I could have laughed.

After wolfing down two consecutive servings of beans on toast, I sat in Jem's chair by the radiator, staring at the TV. I was smiling again. A stupid, permanent little smirk had lodged itself on my face, and seemed to have no intention of moving. Mum looked up from her book, smiling but half frowning.  
"You're in a good mood today, Kier..."  
I looked up from the boring detective show.  
"Yeah. I am."  
I just grinned, then, trying to express the extent of my emotions through body language alone. She smiled absently, seeming more confused than happy for me.  
"Your-- your dad said you were out again last night."  
My smile faltered, and so did hers. I didn't say anything. I didn't know what I was supposed to say.  
"Sorry, love, I don't mean to tell you off. Not when you're so happy--" she started, her voice cracking slightly as she went on to say, "It's nice, seeing you smiling like this."  
She held my gaze, and I was the first to look away. I felt self conscious, as though my emotions were on display, being judged and pecked at. I smiled falsely back, heaving myself out the chair.  
"I might-- I might go and do-- draw for a bit."  
The excuse sounded lame. I just wanted to be on my own for a while. Mum nodded, her eyes shinier than usual.  
"Go on then, love."  
I gave her another plastic smile before going back to my room, bloated and hot. Rubbing the back of my hand against my forehead I went back to my desk, flopping into the chair. And then my mind sparked. It came back to me. I had a new subject.


	5. Chapter 5

I didn't move for five solid hours. After finding my iPod and blowing the dust off it, I plugged my headphones in and blasted the music as loud as it would go. I sat and drew determinedly, just letting the music pound through my head. I didn't skip a single song. 

I hadn't drawn like this in a year. Sketch after sketch I churned out, three of Simon, seven of the flats opposite, and twelve delicate flowers. I'd never drawn flowers before. I was drawing from memory, and I grinned to myself as I recalled a walk in the country with just me and my father. He'd pointed out all the flowers and told me all the names in Latin. It was a fond memory. When I became bored with this I broke out the watercolours. I painted over each of the flowers, my hand shaking with the effort of precision. Then painted over a very old sketch of Rick and made myself cry. I sobbed into my palette for maybe half an hour, and I came out of it feeling cleansed. Finally I took to the canvas, and the acrid scent of acrylic paint filled my nose, making me slightly dizzy. Stroke by stroke I fashioned a scarlet poppy, switching between my sodden watercolours and stark acrylic. I only stopped because of Jem's foghorn shriek of 'dinner's ready, if you're actually gonna eat anything'. I sat back, aware of how long I'd been sat, hunched over my work. My back clicked as I stood, but I felt fantastic. I'd actually done something productive. And I felt purged. I'd cried properly, I'd smiled properly, and I felt full of energy. Like anything was possible.

When I entered the kitchen it was to a deafening silence. The sort of silence that succeeds a deep conversation. Jem and my parents stared up at me from their plates of steak and chips. Jem looked me up and down as though I was something she'd stepped in.  
"Come to join us, have you?"  
She raised an eyebrow, shovelling a forkful of potato into her mouth.  
"Jemima! Don't talk to your brother like that. I'll just set your place up, Kier."  
My dad shot Jem a look before getting up. I slid into the chair that, nowadays, was so rarely used. My feeling of ecstasy had been drained almost immediately. I realised that I wasn't hungry, despite the fact I'd been ravenous only seconds before. I quietly thanked my dad as he placed a plate in front of me, but I didn't touch it. In the silence I was aware of Jem's stare. She was looking at me the way I looked at Gary. I held her gaze for a few seconds, before she looked away with a sigh. I frowned, wondering what had fuelled this sudden display of hatred. I was relieved when my father started talking at us about the new railway. And how there was chewing gum under the seats of the carriages already. I didn't listen much after that. Jem went back to her food, shovelling it into her mouth and making snarky comments. I poked a chip with my fork, resting my elbow on the table and my head on my hand.  
"You gonna eat any of that?"  
I looked up. Jem cocked an eyebrow, looking from my slab of steak and back at me again.  
"Jem! Don't be so rude!" my mother chided, but her voice was shaking. A lot of the time, now, Jem scared her.  
"So what? He never eats anything anyway."  
She shrugged, stabbing the steak off my plate and transporting it to hers before I had a chance to step in.  
"Jemima!"  
"What."  
She glared at my mother,who looked away.  
"I don't know what's got into you..."  
For a few seconds my sister was silent, then she looked pointedly at me. A little smirk curled her lips into a nasty sneer.  
"What about him? What's got into Kieren?"  
I stared at her and she stared back,and in those few moments of silence I realised. She knew. Somehow, she knew. About where I'd been going. About Simon. Then it hit me - Gary. He must have seen something. Maybe he'd seen everything. Jem could read me like a book, and she knew she had the upper hand.  
"What are you talking about, Jem?" my dad ventured, looking from my sister to me.  
"Nothing, dad."  
She went on eating as though nothing had happened. I couldn't take it. I drew my chair back, getting up and going back to my room. Distantly I heard my parents calling me back, but they didn't follow. Thank God.

I sat on my bed, heart pounding and my ears ringing. I thought of Gary's smug sneer, and the silence he'd allowed after I'd sworn at him. Of course he knew. I gritted my teeth, burying my head in my arms as waves of quavering, hot panic filtered through my mouth and stomach, leaving behind an acidic, acrid taste. How could I ever have thought that everything would be OK?

I remembered this feeling of panic well. My first memory of it was from only a few years ago. I was sixteen, and this was my first real experience with a party. Rick had been with me, and for a while it was alright. I tagged along after him, taking the drinks he offered me and keeping out of sight when he was laughing raucously with other people. It had all been going fine until I turned round and he wasn't there. That was it - that dropping feeling, that feeling of your blood being replaced with empty-stomach bile, your head foggy and blurred. I never had much of a problem with crowds, so maybe it was only the drink. I'd gone outside, away from the kissing couples, to try and catch my breath. I remember this all very distinctly, much clearer than most of my other memories involving Rick. I remember hearing his voice, that gruff whisper of 'Ren?' I looked up and there he was, looking down at me with a can of lager in his hand. I couldn't help myself. I'd just pitched myself into his arms-- and he'd caught me. More than that, he held me.  
"Ay, Ren, you're alright."  
His voice, though keeping the masculine growl he'd inherited from his father, was softer than usual. He placed one hand on my back and rubbed my shoulder gently.  
"Don't ever leave me alone again."  
I remember how that felt to say. The strain in my chest, the lump in my throat. I was close to tears.  
"I won't, Ren, I'm here. Rick and Ren forever, yeah?"  
I looked up and managed a shallow laugh.  
"Yeah. Forever."


	6. Chapter 6

I glanced at the clock. 1:56. I should probably have at least attempted sleep hours ago. But I hadn't. I'd been torturing myself. Across my bed I'd scattered photographs, letters, birthday cards and crumpled notes. I'd been looking through everything I had left of Rick. The pictures we'd taken together on school trips, dating back from when we were about seven. I had a picture of nine year old Rick holding a snake at the zoo. There was one of us together atop a hill when we were twelve, filthy, ruddy-faced and grinning. The more recent ones were more painful. More painful because they're so casual. I couldn't look at them and recall a certain memory, something very dear and cherished. These pictures were of us from different angles at lunchtimes or in my room, trying to look either suave or stupid. I only ever achieved the latter. The letters were even worse. Everything was written in his voice. Even the folded classroom notes lovingly addressed to 'ya wanker' brought to mind his harsh laugh, the way his whole being lit up when he grinned. This hurt worse than the knife had when I'd opened up my wrists all those long months ago.

I couldn't bear it any longer. I got off my bed and went out into the hallway, my head swimming. A little crackle made me stop. I was used to the place being silent at night. I looked up and saw Jem peering at me from the kitchen. She looked neither angry nor pleased to see me.  
"What are you doing up this time of night? Don't you have school in the morning?"  
I was determined to try and make peace with her. I warily joined her in the kitchen, where she'd been scoffing dad's favourite crisps.  
"You're one to talk."  
She stared at me until I looked away.  
"Look--"  
"Don't 'look' me. You've been off snogging strangers and I'm the weird one?"  
She spoke harshly, but didn't raise her voice. This was just between the two of us now. She sniffed slightly, crossing her arms across her chest. When she spoke again, her voice was smaller.  
"Gary told me, Kier. He saw you this morning. With that... that bloke."  
I didn't look up. I didn't know how to respond. She waited for a few seconds before speaking again.  
"Why? What are you doing, Kier?"  
I finally looked up, but I couldn't hold her gaze for more than a few seconds.  
"I just-- I just need--"  
"You don't need anything. That's your problem. You think you're tied to things but you're not. You thought you were tied to Rick, now he's gone, you think you have to kill yourself because you can't cope--"  
She let out a little hiccough. I looked up as she sniffed wetly, angrily wicking away the tears that were running down her pale cheeks. I didn't know how to react. I hadn't seen her cry like this in years.  
"I-- I'm sorry--"  
"Don't."  
She clenched her jaw and shot me a filthy look as she barged past me, a juddering sob breaking from her chest. She marched across to her room and slammed the door. I heard my father grumble, and then all was silent.

I leant against the counter, utterly numb. Maybe it was because she was right. Maybe it was because she'd been crying. Who knew. I'd intended to eat something, because I had been feeling hungry. Needless to say I wandered back to my room, floating on a feeling I associated with finding out Rick had been killed. Just numb. Not even sad. Just entirely empty. Like someone's carved a great hole in your chest, scooped everything out, and stuffed the cavity with cotton wool. I sat on the edge of my bed, my mind void and my limbs incapable of movement. I only moved when a piece of paper lying on the floor caught my eye. I picked it up, feeling the smooth, expensive paper between my fingertips. It was a note from Rick, written on a ripped corner of my sketchbook-- I must have dislodged it when I sat down. I unfolded it, relishing the soft, innocent feeling of thick paper, torn and softened by the touch of skin. Even the words, scribbled in thin Biro, created a poetic juxtaposition Mrs Hamilton would have been proud of, had she not condemned us to silence:

Ren  
Wanna come down the den tonight? Lippys out so we wont have to bother with him and me dads watching the game so he won't care. What do ya say?  
Rick

I ran the corner of the paper under my thumbnail, tracing my fingers across the indentations left in the paper, courtesy of Rick's heavy, uncommonly neat script. I remembered that night. Not much had come of it. Or so I tried to tell myself. He'd stolen a carton of his dad's cigarettes and a six pack of beers, and while it had been alright, pissing about and acting drunk, I hadn't seen the point. Usually we just sat together, talking. I preferred that. So I was left feeling a little put out. I wished him goodnight and, as usual, resisted the urge to tack 'I love you' or something equally sappy, pathetic and embarrassingly true on the end. Shame. I never saw him again.


End file.
